


Nanoprobes and Honey

by sophloph



Category: Sherlock (TV), Star Trek, Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Alternate Universe, Beekeeper Sherlock, John isn't so sure about them, M/M, Mentioned Borg Assimilation (Captain Picard Style), Mrs. Hudson runs a bed and breakfast, Sherlock likes his bees, Starship Captain John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-04-17 06:02:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14182455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophloph/pseuds/sophloph
Summary: After a mission gone awry, Captain John Watson is assigned mandatory shore leave on Earth.





	1. Chapter 1

John watched the cottage for a moment, as if worried it might pounce on him, before taking the first step instead. It was that sort of a place, with vines up the sides and flowers almost overwhelming the walkway up to it. The hint of fairytale conjured up images of witches and wolves along with it, of lurking danger behind a picture perfect façade. The thick smell of the garden made him feel vaguely nauseated. After the sterility of deep space, it was no wonder the place had his senses reeling, and by the time he'd reached the front door, his eyes were watering from a sneezing fit.

The door swung open before John was through with knocking. That act in itself felt wrong. He’d grown accustomed to automation, but this door didn’t slip away into the walls, and the hinges whined their age. The beaming older woman who’d opened it for him was somewhat less alien to him.

“Captain Watson! Oh, I’m so glad you’ve arrived. I was worried. I never do trust those transporters, taking you apart and piecing you together again. I can’t help expecting there to be something missing.”

“All in one piece, thank you… Mrs. Hudson?”

“That’s right, dear. Is that all you have?”

John followed her gaze to the suitcase in his hand and nodded. “If you could show me to my room—”

Although the history of the little bed and breakfast was undoubtedly fascinating, John absorbed very little of it as he was led up a narrow staircase. His limp slowed him enough that even the old lady made him look like a tortoise, and he had reason to wipe his brow at the top of it. It seemed a turbolift was too much to ask for.

The bedroom was just large enough not to feel cramped, and the furnishings seemed to come from the same stock as Mrs. Hudson. The bed frame and dresser were heavy wood, and nothing was shy of frills.

“This will suit nicely,” he said, but it didn’t earn him time alone. Even as he wandered to the window to look out, he could feel Mrs. Hudson hovering in the doorway, as if waiting for something more. “That’s everything sorted, isn’t it?” he asked, deliberately keeping his back turned.

At first, the window had been a pretense, but something caught his eye. There was a man out in the garden, bent over one in a series of odd looking boxes. He squinted as part of the box lifted up, covered in…

“Bees?”

Mrs. Hudson was at his shoulder now, making his skin prickle. Harmless as he was sure she was, he liked to keep his personal space his own.

“That’s right. Oh, don’t worry. They won’t sting unless you give them reason to. And we have a spare suit, but, oh dear. I thought it would be nice, for the guests, and so I found the spare. I even helped to bring in the boxes, but Sherlock does like to keep the bees to himself.”

That gave a name to the man. Unfortunately, all covered in white and with his face obscured by netting, Sherlock wasn’t volunteering up any other information, and, with bees on his mind, John found himself no longer in the mood to ask. He turned to Mrs. Hudson, his lips pressed together, and took a moment to word a dismissal.

“You’ll want to rest,” she sighed, coming to his rescue. She had a fluttery way of moving her hands about that didn’t help him to clear his head of insects. “You've had a long day, I imagine. I’ll call when your tea is ready.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” John said, with a polite smile meant to rush her on her way, and huffed as he finally sat and stretched. His leg hurt, for whatever nonsense reason it had found to do so, and his heart had decided to try and catch up with his nerves. Trust Starfleet to send him on a bloody beekeeping retreat. Mandatory shore leave had sounded bad to start with, but his superiors had been adamant, and he hadn’t been able to sidestep the orders. He was certain the ship's counselor had played a significant role in the decision as well. Somehow, he still hadn’t thought they’d go so far as to plant him beside a hive mind and call it good for his mental health.

He had exercises he was meant to do. Carefully, he settled down onto the mattress, then began counting out the stages of each breath. Inhale, hold, exhale. Inhale, hold, exhale. It must have done some good, because a moment later, he was startled by a call to tea.

Unfortunately, John's startle response was much madder than it used to be, and the dream he’d been pulled from didn’t help matters. When his guard dropped again, he nearly did with it. Shivering, he glanced down at himself, confirming that his arms were his own. The civilian clothes he'd had replicated hadn’t vanished to reveal Borg implants, and his mind contained only his own racing thoughts, not the shared voice of the Collective. “Pull yourself together, Watson,” he muttered, and straightened up in the mirror, trying to reclaim his humanity through a bit of grooming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to be my beta-reader, please let me know! I need someone to assign me deadlines or I won't do anything.


	2. Chapter 2

The spread in the dining room was more elaborate than John had expected, especially considering the absence of a replicator. “We had one growing up,” Mrs. Hudson explained, “but it takes some of the art out of it, I think. Now, my husband didn’t see the difference. But not everything’s meant to be perfect. Sometimes, that just makes it boring… do you know what I mean?”

John nodded absently and took a seat as Mrs. Hudson filled a plate for him. “That’s really enough, thanks,” he tried to protest, but portion sizes were apparently out of his control. His appetite didn’t seem inclined to rise to the occasion, and he prodded at his food thoughtfully before lifting a bite to his mouth. Again, he had the feeling of being watched, making him grateful when another guest burst in to distract his hostess.

“I’m just taking a few things upstairs,” the man said, seemingly to preempt a reprimand from Mrs. Hudson. “Very busy, can’t stop and chat. Not that I wouldn’t love to…” His eyes landed on John, and he paused, brow furrowing at the change in scenery.

“This is Captain John Watson,” Mrs. Hudson provided helpfully. “I told you he’d be arriving; I'm absolutely certain of it.”

The man seemed far less certain, but, remembering his manners, John extended his hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure’s mine, surely,” the man said in a practiced way. “Will you be staying long?”

“A few weeks.”

“Hm.” Plate full, the man turned and disappeared into the hall.

It took John a moment to realize he hadn’t been given a name, and he turned to Mrs. Hudson, who, again, began to fill him in without prompting. It must be lonely, he thought fleetingly, running a business where everyone was only passing through.

“That was Sherlock. You’ll have to forgive him. He lives in his own world.”

The name placed this man as the beekeeper. John remembered wondering if it was a Vulcan name, but, up close, Sherlock had rounded ears, and John had never met a Vulcan with curls. They were flattened from the beekeeping hat, or whatever it was called, in a way that had made his puzzlement look all the more pronounced. To be fair, John doubted his nap had left him looking much less befuddled.  Even with Sherlock no longer present, he found himself fixing his bedhead self-consciously.

John hadn't pinned the beekeeper down as a guest at the start, and Mrs. Hudson’s tone made him even less certain. There was a fondness to the way she spoke about him. “I’m sorry, but. Is he your son?”

At that, Mrs. Hudson gave a funny little giggle. “No, dear. No, but he does live here. On a more permanent basis, I mean. He's across the hall from you, in B. He shouldn’t give you any trouble, but if he does, just let me know, and I’ll have a word with him.”

John nodded, wondering what sort of trouble Sherlock had given people in the past. He examined his plate again and realized he'd been separating the peas from the chicken like a picky little kid. Funny; he remembered always scarfing down what he was given back when he and Harry were small and Earth-bound. After another stab at the chicken, he cleared his throat, but wasn’t given the chance to excuse himself.

“A tour?”

The voice had come from behind him, and John turned quickly in his seat, half-rising.

“Of the grounds,” Sherlock continued. “I’ll take you on one. Mrs. Hudson, put his dinner in the fridge.”

“I haven’t agreed yet,” John protested, on his feet now and incredulous.

“You will. Come along. The flowers will be closing soon.”

John looked at Mrs. Hudson, shooting her a telepathic, _is he mad?_ , but she was no help. Sherlock’s expression revealed nothing but a slight impatience. With a sigh, John pushed himself all the way up and tottled after the much more graceful Sherlock, glad that the pretense of the meal had, at least, been abandoned.

It must have rained while he’d been asleep, because the air smelled fresh and the flowers looked like they were struggling to right themselves completely. He knew the feeling. With the ground bordering on muddy, his cane felt much less like a stabilizing force. Sherlock, seemingly oblivious, walked on ahead and had launched into a monologue, which John half-listened to.

“And, of course, organized by type of soil,” Sherlock was saying when he realized that his audience wasn’t as attentive as he’d hoped. He turned around, and John caught a brief flash of disappointment before the man seemingly decided to change tactics. The smile which overtook Sherlock’s face then was odd, making John quick to intercede.

“I’m sorry. It’s not that I’m not interested. Just. Slow down a bit, maybe?”

“Oh.” The smile softened into something less concerning.

“It’s amazing that you helped plan this whole garden. I didn’t realize you’d been here that long.”

Sherlock waited for John to fall in step beside him. “I reorganized it. It was in terrible disarray.”

“Well, it’s lovely now.”

John had said it primarily to be polite, but a bashful duck of Sherlock’s head made him rethink his priorities. He gave to garden another look—a closer one, this time, so that he’d have questions.

“So why is it so heavy on flowers? Why not vegetables, or something?”

“You’re a very practical man, aren’t you,” Sherlock said with some distaste. “And yet sold on Starfleet’s lofty ideals, is that right?”

It was John’s turn to be taken off guard. “Well. Yeah. I mean. I believe in diplomacy and exploration… is there something wrong with that?”

“No! No. I’m sure you led your crew very well.”

The potential for an argument hung in the air for a moment. It was something John had a bad habit of chasing after. His free hand worked into a fist. He smiled with his teeth. He thought about how it would look on a Starfleet report if he pissed off all the locals. His feet kept moving, and soon they were surrounded by wildflowers.

“Border of the property?”

“That’s right.”

With the aid of the wildflowers, the garden faded into the adjoining field. Past that was another cottage, then another, spaced well away. A starship full of people had a certain energy to it, constant and invigorating, but, here, insects seemed to be the main form of life. Industrious as they were, it was difficult to draw much inspiration from them.

They stood there for a moment, faced the wrong way to appreciate Sherlock’s hard work, before John reminded himself where he was and thought to turn around. “Thanks for the tour. That was very… pleasant, I suppose. I’ll see you around?”

“You don’t want to see the hives?”

If John went a bit pale, it was likely because of the missed meal.

“Hang on, the woman inside said that you don’t like showing the bees to her guests.”

Sherlock shifted his weight, and John nearly thought he was going to turn and walk away.

“The offer's open,” he maintained, his eyes on John’s, assessing. “Or,” he added, after a long stretch, “I could show you what I’ve got in the shed.”

Exposed as the look had made him feel, John had also sensed a challenge in it that had him straightening in response. “Fine. Let’s look at the bloody bees,” he sighed. He wasn’t so far gone that a brief look around would send him reeling. At least, he’d like to think that was the case, and believing was half the battle.


End file.
